


Heaven is a Place on Earth With You

by writeforlove



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angel Bucky Barnes, Angst with a Happy Ending, Art Student Steve, Bruce just cares a lot about steve, Depressed Bucky Barnes, Guardian Angels, M/M, Pansexual Sam Wilson, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sam isn't an angel, Slow Burn, Survivor Guilt, and also some of the thoughts he has due to the depression and ptsd, bc I do want to go into depth about how bucky was tortured, but don't tell Bucky bc he can't tell the difference, but i decided to use the archive warning, my fav science smol should be protected, there isn't tons of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-07-21 21:41:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7405945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeforlove/pseuds/writeforlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Actual angel James Buchanan Barnes suffers from PTSD and depression after he is captured during war and tortured with the removal of his wings. Shamed for his physical ailment, he's left in isolation for thousands of years, allowing his mental illnesses to fester. However, he finds solace in observing and studying Earth, where he falls in love with his father's creations. Until one day, due to the rapid disappearance of angels from Heaven, he is asked to become a guardian angel for none other than the frail, fragile, college art student, Steven Grant Rogers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The unbearable pain that had settled into his bones still resonated determinedly after nearly three thousand years. A drop in the bucket compared to his eternal life, though he doubted the suffering would even begin to alleviate over the next few millennia.

Nothing was quite as damaging as the isolation and loneliness, however. There was no method by which to heal the damage that had been done to him, so even those who were once closest to him concurred that the best option was alienation, not for his benefit, but for their own; as is principle, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Occasionally, James would find solace in not having to forge joy in order to curb the concern of his once family, but that was not enough to excuse the loss of himself. The shattered pieces of his past being cut like daggers beneath his skin. There were so many memories there, trapped within the broken shards, but he refused to acknowledge them. Acknowledging them would bring them to the forefront of his mind, rather than in the depths of his sub-consciousness where they currently resided. Those memories would remind him of the joy he once felt, remind him of the joy he was sentenced to never feel again.

Hands rose to his eye-level; they were familiar, but not his. They belonged to another. Someone who had purpose, love, stability. At a moment in endless time, James was a necessary element of a delicately balanced community. He did not need, he was needed. Today, however, he sat the at cusp of the heavens, looking down upon Earth, observing the successes and tragedies of humanity, holding on as tightly as he could to the little will to live he had left.

* * *

 

In a time before the historical, worldwide flood, fallen angels, who rebelled against heaven, descended onto Earth. The righteous and faithful angels of heaven had fought for centuries to keep control over their fallen brothers and sisters. However, the fallen’s lust for the human body, as well as that of the demise of the angels of heaven, resulted in the Nephilim. Both human and angel, the Nephilim’s power was unmatched, and they posed a threat to Heaven and its angels. A war, between the angels and the fallen’s children, was initiated.

In the end, the angels claimed victory, though it could hardly be considered a fair fight. While the angels were many, the Nephilim were far and few in-between, and despite their tremendous power, they were hidden by their fearful mothers from birth. Condemnation of these children and their mothers was inevitable if members of the human communities were to hear the unbelievable stories of beautiful, winged creatures descending from the skies to impregnate them. The Nephilim children were untrained, most were hardly aware of their powers; thus, they had no means by which to defend themselves when the righteous angels arrived to remove them from their homes and place them in what could only be considered a prison, located beneath the ocean’s floor.

If James had known of these methods, he would have disapproved, but compartmentalization was an unavoidable aspect of the duties of Heaven. While children were being ripped from the arms of their mothers, James, commander of a battalion of warriors faced the armies of Hades. More Nephilim would be created if they could not stop the issue at its source, and eventually, the children _would_ learn how to use their powers. Heaven would be overthrown. Before the creation of the Nephilim, the angels were ordered to only keep the fallen at bay; the love they still had for their brothers and sisters was too strong to do much else. However, dire circumstances commanded that the fallen be eliminated, no questions, no hesitation; they had to sacrifice their empathy. By the end of the first day, the River Styx was red with blood. The angels claimed supremacy over the fallen.

However, the victory could not be celebrated when among their losses was the beloved commander, James. As far as the angels knew, he was dead. They were naïve to believe that death was a suitable punishment. No, James screamed for death, begged for it.

The ways they tortured him—

* * *

 

James had desperately tried to forget. But now he was trembling, the traumatic experiences racked through his brain. He could hear the sounds, feel the ripping of tendons, the psychological trauma that still lingered, untended, as they tantalizingly tore his wings from his body, shattering the essence of his being to shards.

When the angels found him, they were in disbelief. What was initially an attack on a discovered crevice of the Earth where remaining fallen resided, quickly became a rescue mission. Once the angels had slaughtered the fallen in the area, they revealed their true priority. Before releasing him from the cage he was being held in, James was bombarded with questions about whether he had given up any critical information, for they all knew it was the only reason he was being kept alive. He feebly shook his head and then slowly raised his head to view, through swollen eyes, the faces of his rescuers. The moment that James saw the looks on their faces, everyone left alive in that room knew he would never be the same. What the angels returned to Heaven was no more than an empty husk.

It was a miracle that they still allowed him to remain in Heaven at all, he still had powers, but he was not what he once was.

* * *

 

It was a miracle when a messenger angel, he believed her name was Ariel, though he doubted he remembered correctly, relayed the request of his presence in front of the establishing angels, who assigned the roles of all others. She transported them there when he confirmed compliance.

Upon his arrival, James was told that he would stand-in as the guardian angel of one of the humans. Though requests such as this were unheard of when he was an important figure in matters of Heaven, he did not question the order, because once again, he had a purpose.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for beginning this journey with me. This is my first multiple chaptered fanfiction, so please leave any feedback you have and let me know of any grammatical errors. Hopefully, this prologue wasn't too wordy or difficult to understand. Certain parts of it will be explained later on, but I wanted to establish a background for Bucky's inner thoughts. The mood of the story will change in the next chapter, so hopefully this didn't deter you from reading on. Again, thank you and I hope you enjoy this!  
> Also, this part is entirely about Bucky and his past, so when I write James, I do mean Bucky, which will make sense later on.


	2. Ghost

After three years at Pratt Institute, Steve somehow imagined that he would finally be taking classes solely based on his major, Art and Design; however, on rainy nights such as these, he found himself in the library, scouring the aisles for books focusing on the Vietnam War.

During his search, he desperately tried to avoid sections of the library that hadn’t been touched in years. Aside from the dimmer lighting and eerie isolation, the floating dust bunnies tended to aggravate his asthma, and he wasn’t in the mood for a trip to the hospital. Steve knows he could have just brought his inhaler with him; he also knows his friends would near have a stroke if they knew he walked out the door without it, but as he ~~seriously~~ jokingly reminds said friends consistently, he likes to live life a bit dangerously. Which is why he would much rather be catching pneumonia in order to capture how street lights look like a beacon of hope behind the heavy, collapsing branches of the rain burdened trees, than feeling nostalgic about a war that there was never a hope of winning. According to his professor, history influenced art. It most definitely didn’t influence _Steve’s_ art, but he supposed he understood the logic behind the assignment. That didn’t cease the fidgeting of his fingers, however. While he turned the pages of each book, looking for specific annotations and common themes to focus on, his hands itched to sketch.

The tapping of the rain on the windows sent his mind whirling with images of watercolor paintings and the heat emanating from his coffee mug warmed the muscles in his hands. Both contributed to his lack of concentration. Why study death when life already inspires so much? Maybe he’d propose the question to his professor during the next lecture. He knew it would start an argument, but confrontation thrilled him.

Steve considered distractedly doodling on the edge of his notebook, just to take some of the edge off. Though he knew that if he stopped studying to sketch something, he would be completely unhappy with the unfocused product, become frustrated beyond what he could tolerate, and end up giving up on everything altogether, opting for sleep or finding another television series to binge watch. He kept reading. He had to get this research done, regardless of how much he loathed it or how long it took.

He checked his phone; it read 9:56pm. Sam and Bruce would be home by now, if he got home in time, maybe they’d help him warm up with a movie, because he knew he’d be freezing by the time he got there. It was almost winter in Brooklyn, and as fate would have it, the heater in his car was broken and he couldn’t get it fixed until his next paycheck. Which reminded him, he needed to ask his boss if he could work some extra hours this week. He had some hospital bills to pay, rent to pay, and he’d picked up another kitten from the animal shelter, so now there were two extra mouths to feed and he had to come up with the food in order for that to happen.

…He was getting sidetracked again. He needed to read.

* * *

 

A boy from Brooklyn. Steven Grant Rogers. An art student with two roommates and a stubborn attitude, who had suffered through nearly every sickness known to man, despite his young age. He was also extremely accident prone.

James admitted to himself that he was a bit out of his depths. Why he would be assigned to this human, after years of uselessness, only God knew. And he didn’t feel quite up to questioning authority. While James has never known Heaven to be understaffed, he failed to think of any other reason why they would even ask for him. He might have thought on it for a while longer if it weren’t for the startling sneeze that knocked him off of the bookshelf that he was perched on. He had lived in isolation for so long, surprises were now foreign to him; even the flutter of a butterfly’s wings could be startling if not anticipated. So, James was extremely thankful for the easy control over his invisibility. Otherwise, that would have been incredibly embarrassing for both him and his new, unaware companion.

Making himself invisible was one thing; however, relearning how to use his other angel powers was unbearably taxing, especially since being sharp and discrete was key when dealing with walking disasters. It was only by a miracle that James was able to prevent a bookshelf from toppling over on top of Steve as he reached on his tip toes for a book. Just a little bit ago, James had been completely out of breath having discretely huffed the dust off of each of the books before Steve grabbed them. A beveled rug had threatened to take the small blonde to the floor and James had nearly thrown himself in front of Steve to straighten it out. He couldn’t recall ever being so on edge. Not that he remembered battle, but James doubted he was even this cautious and anxious during his time spent on the battlefield.

Besides being out of practice, James was also missing his wings. He was the first case of missing wings in Heaven, so no one knew what this absence really caused. During his very brief time as a guardian, James had discovered that he couldn’t move nearly as quick, and he didn’t possess a fraction of the power he once had. Most angels could level an entire city with the raise of an eyebrow. James, on the other hand, could hardly keep up with this _human_. He also seemed a bit more emotional, a bit more empathetic than angels generally were. He couldn’t remember if he had felt the same way before isolation, but if not, then he figured it had more to do with his eternally screwed-up mental state, than the absence of his wings.

Staying awake also proved to be a near impossible feat. Once Steve had collected the necessary literature and chosen a table to sit at, James relaxed slightly and took a seat across from him, studying him for a bit. Delicate eyelashes frequently fluttered against the apples of his cheeks. He had sensitive eyes. And fidgety hands. A nervous habit of biting the insides of his mouth. Shallow breathing patterns. But none of this gave insight to who Steve Rogers really was. James tried to focus on his eyes. Maybe there was something there, something that he could read and study, like how Steve studied his books.

James felt sore, wonderfully sore and exhausted and filled with purpose. And for the first time in a long time, he fell asleep in the presence of someone. Someone who did not know him, probably didn’t even believe he existed, but James was significant to their life now and he held tightly to that. And he dozed off to sleep…

* * *

 

…a cough tore through Steve’s throat. Some dust had caught in his lungs and now his eyes watered, tears pooling behind his eyelids. But what startled him was the loud clattering sound made by the chair across from him falling to the floor. Steve’s brows furrowed and he suspiciously checked the area around him before peeking his head below the table to observe the fallen chair. He didn’t see anything that could have pushed the chair over. He looked around the area again. He was completely alone and he doubted there was enough might behind his cough to exert that kind of force.

His eyebrows raised. Maybe he’d developed some sort of superpowers? He’d present the theory to Bruce and Sam for a second opinion. He placed the books on a cart nearby, collected his things and walked to his car, the rain seeming to have let up a bit.

* * *

 

James most definitely had a bruise on his hip now. Were angels supposed to get bruises? He couldn’t remember. They definitely scarred. He could’ve spent time trying to remember, but he was more focused on shielding Steve from as much rain and wind as he was capable of, trying to make up for how he’d fallen off a chair and knocked it over in the process.

Anything could be startling without warning.

* * *

 

Of course the boys looked at him as though he were losing his mind when he mentioned that he was developing super powers, Professor X style. Then again, maybe his studies were getting to his head.

“No offense Stevie, but I’d believe you had a ghostly encounter before I believed you were becoming one of the X-Men,” Sam commented.

“There’s some leftovers on the counter for you, and I set out some cold medicine. Don’t forget to take it,” Bruce seemed to ignore Steve’s claim of superhuman abilities, focusing on whatever was on the television.

“Why the cold medicine?” Steve prodded, even though he already knew the answer.

“It’s freezing outside and your lungs have to be irritated since you’re the only person who still visits the library for research anymore,” Bruce finally pulled his eyes from the TV, turning to look at Steve with a smile, “someone has to look out for you.”

“Sorry, but superheroes don’t need cold medicine.”

“You are such a little shit,” Sam laughed as Bruce sighed.

Steve had warmed the plate of food in the microwave (and taken the cold medicine) before sitting himself on the couch between his pseudo parental unit, immediately enjoying the warmth emanating from the both of them.

He turned to Sam and whispered, “What are you guys watching?”

“Honestly, I have no idea, but Bruce has been binging it for a few hours. I walked in here earlier to ask about dinner and now I’m invested in the characters, so no turning back,” Sam explained, head still facing the television.

Steve hummed in understanding and Bruce shushed them both.

When he finished eating, Steve set his plate on the coffee table, picked up Salem, the solid black kitten he’d adopted a couple days ago (Steve was unabashedly a fan of 90’s shows), placed him on his lap, and leaned against Bruce, content with sleeping here for the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SO sorry that it has taken me so long to upload this. A lot has happened in that amount of time and while I've tried to find the time to work on this, it's been difficult. But now that I'm on a more structured schedule with the start of classes, hopefully I'll be able to upload more often. Thank you for sticking with me this far & please let me know of any feedback you have.


	3. Purpose Does Not Create Contentment

**_Author’s Note:_ **

_About two weeks ago, I found myself in a very dark place. I have diagnosed, clinical depression. While I do not ask for sympathy, my purpose for writing this story was to share my point of view on depression with you. To begin this chapter, I feel it is best to share with you some of what I have wrote privately about my own depression. This is what I intend Bucky’s inner monologue to consist of through much of this story. While I know this is how I feel, sometimes it is difficult to admit it to myself, let alone write it into a story; so hopefully, this will help you understand better. If you’re not interested in reading this, that’s completely fine. The chapter will begin where the italics end._

_“Do you understand what it feels like to deteriorate from the inside? To hear the voices screaming in your mind and to agree with them because you're exhausted. You don't have the energy to fight against them any longer. And the voices in your head aren't just your own. They include your friends and family, people you admire, people you may have passed as you painstakingly walk to a destination that won't allow you isolation and sleep, the only times you feel safe. You're numb to the pain of existence, but not quite to the utter disappointment and disgust you feel with yourself._

_You want to cry, but you're not sure why. You feel the need to scream, run, play music at a deafening volume, so that you don't hear the voices. You want to talk about it to a friend because there's so much in your head, and therapists don't seem to listen, their eyes are dead, they provide no response. And you know if you tell a therapist everything you're thinking, they may send you away for your own safety, but you want to keep pretending that you're fine. And you don't want to tell a friend because they'll either view you as a hopeless pity case or someone they just don't want to deal with. Because who would want to spend any time with a psychotic, depressed, pathetic excuse for human life. You aren't worth the trouble. You don't deserve their sympathy or love or concern. You are defective. You deserve nothing. But by some miracle, you find the courage to poorly convey the watered down version of your fucked mental state._

And they tell you that they understand.

_That everyone experiences something like this. And you know they mean well, but you want to **die**. Because if everyone feels this way at some point in their life, then you must be a lot more fucked up than you originally thought. Everyone experiences something like this, but they don't disappoint everyone they care about. They don't throw away everything because they just can't handle it. They don't imagine themselves dying as a calming mechanism. They don't tell themselves they don't deserve to eat or to feel love or joy or to be successful in life. They don't think to themselves that they need to call their family because they are sure that they are going to die that day. They don't assume that everyone hates them. They don't distance themselves from the friends they've made because they believe that those friends only tolerate them out of pity._

_Because who would ever want to be friends with you?_

_Who would ever love you?_

_Why would anyone waste their time on you when you should be dead?_

_In a moment of clarity, you realize that it was irrational to distance yourself from everyone, but now they really do dislike you. And you know you can't use your mental illness as an excuse, because they still didn't want to actually be around you in the first place. And now they're free._

_So let them be free. Don't make them carry you through simple daily activities because you're too pathetic to manage on your own. You resent them treating you as if you're something fragile, but you still want their shoulder to cry on when you break down at night._

_When you’re given a purpose, you suddenly feel reinvigorated. You feel that there may be a way to live your life and accomplish something. You suppress the voices in your mind for as long as you can, but they refuse to be silenced. Eventually, what gave you hope and inspiration is your greatest cause of stress. You aren’t qualified to accomplish this goal; it shouldn’t have been given to you in the first place. And now you are failing the people who depended on you to contribute something. You begin to realize that the motivation and joy that you felt when this began was all a cruel joke. You build yourself up only to plummet back to rock bottom. It is a vicious, fatal cycle.”_

* * *

 

Sam Wilson was most definitely an angel. James was completely convinced. He had never witnessed Sam use any sort of angelic powers, but that didn’t discourage James’ speculation. It was his way of justifying how Sam could do his job better than him. I mean sure, James was a bit rusty after a few thousand years of not using his powers, but he was still an _angel_. Or at least, he liked to believe he still qualified as one. And yet, if Bruce was by Sam’s side, James figured his presence wasn't even necessary. The two were hell-bent on protecting Steve no matter the cost to their own mental stability, yet still somehow managed to give him space to breathe. Not that Steve was something fragile to be handled with the utmost care, but he was _human_. A human with a very weak immune system and very impulsive behavior. While both of those things made him vulnerable, they were only a fraction of what composed Steve Rogers, and James had come to appreciate all of him in the past few months. In fact, he’d grown very fond of Steve, Sam, and Bruce.

James envied the love between the three of them. They were so understanding and accepting of one another despite their differences. It was difficult for him to comprehend. Though he didn’t understand the judgement and hatred that could be expressed by mankind either. Everything was a bit confusing to him lately. Most recently, he seemed to question why he was here. He hadn’t been asked to report back to his superiors since descending to Earth. He wondered about what could have happened to Steve’s previous guardian. But he also feared that if he focused on that thought for too long, he might lose this moment. Better to be forgotten than to return to the life he was living.

James keyed in to the conversation between Steve and Bruce. Sam must have left for classes while he wasn’t paying attention.

“Is that dick of a professor still trying to humiliate you during lecture or has he finally accepted that he isn’t an all-knowing son of a bitch?”

Bruce sighed with a tired laugh, “Nah, he seems to have let it go since we’ve moved on from discussions about radiation.”

“Well if you ever revisit the topic, make sure to fight him on it again. I mean, how could he think that beta radiation could be too dangerous to-”

“Gamma.”

Steve gave Bruce a puzzled look, so he clarified again.

“It’s about gamma radiation and to be fair, people have died from exposure to gamma rays.”

“That’s what I meant,” Steve shrugged. “People die all the time, that’s what science is for. Right?”

“If only our lab coordinators had the same philosophy on safety as you, Stevie.”

Steve turned to look at Bruce from where he was pouring a bowl of cereal with a smug look of validation on his face, until Bruce shut it down with, “I was being sarcastic.”

Steve frowned overdramatically and the exchange made James giggle.

“Science is neat, but I’m afraid it’s not very forgiving, Steve.”

After a moment of silence, Bruce asked Steve about the art project he had been working on, which is when Steve revealed that his professor did _not_ appreciate a realism piece depicting the overwhelming death that the Vietnam war resulted in, accompanied by an essay that passive aggressively suggested how ridiculous the assignment was.

“He wanted us to create art based off of history. _He_ assigned us the topics and then he complains that my depiction of a _war_ is too graphic?!” Steve emphasized every word with very expressive hand motions and then continued to mumble about how he would show his professor graphic.

Steve shuffled across the small kitchen to sit at the table with Bruce, carrying his cereal and coffee. “Hopefully, he’ll be happier with my next piece. I mean, I don’t know what I’m going to do for it yet, but if it doesn’t get me a passing grade, then fuck him.”

Despite the vulgar language, Bruce continued to look at him fondly.

“Don’t smile at me like that Bruce. I am anger. I am death. You should fear me. My soul is black like this coffee. Which reminds me, the next time you do dishes, set it for an extra rinse. Clean mugs are worth a rise in the water bill,” Steve looked suspiciously into his coffee as if something was going to reach from the cup and grab him.

“You are such an idiot.” Bruce stood to put his plate in the sink, but not before Steve could audibly mumble, “At least I’m not a _nerd_.”

Bruce smacked him on the side of the head while Steve continued to laugh himself silly.

“I have to go do some lab work, I’ll be back later,” Bruce kissed Steve’s head where he had just smacked him. The action made James tilt his head in consideration.

“Bye, nerd.”

James was aware that Bruce and Steve had been friends for many years. Bruce had assumed a patriarchal role after the death of Steve's father. Bruce had a father, but he would have been better off without him due to his abusive nature. Rather than absorb that violent rage however, Bruce repelled it and managed to emerge from the situation a better person than his father ever could have been. Steve was definitely someone precious to Bruce. He thought very highly of Steve and was consistently proud of who he was despite the tragedies he had faced. The need to make Bruce proud weighed heavily on Steve, but it also motivated him. And the two maintained a system of reassurance because a human life was no simple feat, and they were always just doing the best that they could.

* * *

 

It was still early morning. The sun shone brightly through the window blinds. It filtered through Steve’s golden hair, brightened his eyes, and accentuated the sharp, yet soft curves of his face. James found it captivating that someone so beautiful possessed the talent to create equally lovely art. It almost seemed unfair.

Steve had wrapped himself in a blanket and was currently nestled into the corner of the couch with a few simple drawing utensils and his sketchbook. It was his day off from work, and he didn’t have any scheduled classes on Mondays. He sketched a few outlines for future projects that he wanted to work on and gave some of his attention to the two kittens who had crawled onto his lap. Despite the coffee he’d had earlier, Steve was still incredibly tired. Midterms had just passed and he felt as if he could sleep for a few years. James could tell he was exhausted, so he gently placed his fingertips on the side of Steve’s head and he began to doze off.

On days like these, James would follow Bruce or Sam through their day and look after them for a while. He felt much more assured about his ability to protect Steve than he had in the beginning of his time here. And since Bruce and Sam apparently didn’t have their own guardians, _someone_ had to look after them. James was never sure why only some humans were selected to have guardians, or maybe they didn’t need them because _they were angels themselves_. James had tried to test the theory before, but he’d still add it to his list of reasons why Sam was definitely an angel and Bruce very likely might be.

He had discovered that Sam was studying industrial design with a focus in aeronautics. He worked at a local coffee shop, which suited him, since he liked everyone and was liked by everyone. It also worked out well because, as a charming pansexual, most of his dates ended up being with the regular customers. First, he would impress them with his incredible memory by having their drink prepared by the time they walked through the door and then he’d smile and they’d just go weak at the knees. James spent very little time with Sam when he was working. Though he greatly enjoyed tending to the positive energy within the tiny coffee shop, it wasn’t very often needed.

Bruce, on the other hand, was a chemistry major who worked as a student instructor in some of the undergraduate labs. Unlike Sam, he wasn’t the most charismatic. His strategy for getting to know someone included staring at them from a distance and then quickly looking away when they turned towards him. James was a bit confused by this method, especially since it didn’t seem to work. But after reflecting on how he watched Steve, he felt like he could relate. Bruce wasn’t committed to any sort of relationship, but he definitely loved to stare at his fellow student instructor, Betty Ross. She was stunningly intelligent, kind and gentle, but unfortunately for Bruce, her father was the professor who he had been in an argument with all semester, so he regretfully kept his distance. James tried to help him in any way he could. Aside from preventing chemical spills and combustion in the lab, he may have also pulled one of the student’s lab stools into the middle of the aisle while Betty wasn’t paying attention. Sure, the student payed the consequence, but it was worth Bruce awkwardly catching Betty in his arms when she tripped over the leg of the stool. James was very proud of that day, especially when he listened to Bruce telling Steve all about it later that day.

Observing Sam and Bruce gave James further insight into how humans functioned. During his isolation, he had spent so much time observing them. It was startling to realize that he had only begun to understand the framework of humanity.

* * *

 

The next day, James returned to his regular duty of accompanying Steve. After a couple of morning classes, Steve grabbed a coffee and drove to where he worked at the local animal shelter. There was almost an incident on the way there. Luckily, James interfered and shocked a careless driver back to attention by grabbing them by the hair and pulling their eyes back to the road. There was no angel equivalent of coffee, and James was too tired to care about discretion. The way he saw it, he was invisible and saved the lives of several people, so the method by which he did it didn’t really matter in the end. When he returned to Steve’s side, he joined him in yelling at the other drivers. He seemed to be adopting some of Steve’s fiery attitude, though not enough to cause concern. He couldn’t imagine the outcome of someone as stubborn and fervent as Steve being accompanied by a guardian with similar traits. Destruction and social justice was probably the most likely answer.

James loved going to the animal shelter with Steve. Animals were much less confusing than humans and he spent most of his time keeping them calm. He’d overheard Steve’s manager telling him that the animals always seemed more calm when he was around lately. That made James smile, hearing that his presence was appreciated. He knew the animals could sense his celestial aura. He liked to reveal himself to them. Animals who had been their awhile had begun to recognize him. It was a nice contrast to being constantly invisible. He could heal the injured or sick animals, calm the ones who were anxious or had suffered abuse, give the neglected ones love. It not only helped the animals, but also dramatically increased their likelihood to be adopted.

Unfortunately, there was more to worry about than the animals.

While tending to one of the new arrivals, James felt a scar that ran about half the length of the dog's spine. Another abuse victim. He pressed his fingers to the back of the dog's neck to check for any internal damage.

But the world around him went dark—

His blurry vision revealed the cold stone where his bloody knees were resting. Or were they bloody? He couldn’t tell. He was kneeling in a pool of blood. His own? Or another’s?

Another’s.

He was chained, no way of breaking free, no way to escape. He could feel them digging into his skin. Blood stained feathers littered the ground. Accusations, claims, questions being screamed at him. All he could hear was the ringing in his ears. Could feel the cold sweat that covered him. Taste the blood rising from his lungs.

He could only stare at the floor. His eyes following the stream of blood, his vision finding someone familiar to him. A friend. Brother.

James couldn’t understand what he saw. He shouldn’t be here. Why was he laying there beside James? Ripped apart, dead eyes staring past him. They used him against James. They knew how much James cared for him. It was James’ fault. He let him die.

He should have given them what they wanted. How could he allow them to take his life? James stared in horror at the dead figure lying next to him. He heard screams, could feel the strain they had on his abused vocal chords, but he couldn’t stop.

—and when he was brought back into the light, he found himself very alone. Cold and shaking. He could hardly breathe. He wanted to leave his own mind, find solace somewhere very distant. But he could still hear screams.

They weren’t his own this time.

James ran towards the source of the commotion, outside of the shelter, to find Steve lying unconscious on the ground. A woman was kneeling down beside him. Her voice had been the one screaming. She gently repositioned Steve’s fragile form so that he was lying on his back, an improvement from the curled up position he had been in. Now that James could see his face, he saw that Steve was drifting in and out of consciousness. The woman was calling for emergency assistance.

James stood completely still. It was his fault. He let Steve get hurt.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My mind kept saying, "my buddy, my guy, how about you stop including all of those clichés," while my heart kept saying, "another one, another one..."  
> Basically, I apologize if my writing ever seems too self-indulgent, or if it always does, I at least hope that you like it anyway.
> 
> Also, I included a quote from one of my new favorite shows in this chapter, so if you noticed, let me know!!  
> In the next chapter is when Steve will finally meet Bucky!! (Bit of a spoiler, I know, but I have to hold your interest somehow.) So, if the ending of this chapter was unsatisfying to you; hopefully, you'll stick around for the next update! But regardless, thank you so much for reading and feel free to leave me any feedback you have.


End file.
